


The City of Angels

by cryptidbf, denounce



Series: People Like Us [1]
Category: L.A. Noire
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Catholic Guilt, Catholicism, Internalized Homophobia, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Religion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, What's a Slow Burn, gay detectives in the 20s
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-26 11:16:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14401020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryptidbf/pseuds/cryptidbf, https://archiveofourown.org/users/denounce/pseuds/denounce
Summary: In the year 1925, Homicide detective James Donnelly is partnered up with Rusty Galloway. As their professional relationship progresses, so does their personal— and James doesn't like it one bit. While he battles with his own faith, Rusty fights through wife after wife, trying to keep up a useless facade.Even in a place as forsaken as the City of Angels, they cannot escape the damning gaze of the Lord.At least, that's how James sees it.





	1. Temptation

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, it's us again! This time we come to you with a fic that provides backstory to the relationship between Rusty and Donnelly, briefly touched on in chapter 2 of An Illicit Affair.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> -oniyen

When James was told he would finally be assigned a partner, he didn’t know what to expect.

He had hoped to work with someone driven and capable, a shining example of police procedure, a detective to be both feared and revered. Or perhaps someone quick and efficient, leaving out a few details here and there, but getting them commendations nonetheless. Maybe even an average partner, not too good and not too bad either.

What he got instead was a drunken fool.

Rusty Galloway is _anything_ but driven and capable, anything but quick and efficient, and _especially_ anything but average. To James, he’s the very bottom of rock bottom— a loud, rude, and disrespectful man who always smells of booze and can’t keep his comments to himself. He prefers to pass everything off to James, be it an interrogation, a search, or even _paperwork._ He doesn’t have to see it to believe Rusty’s spending his free time drinking and drinking and _drinking_ until he ends up hailing a cab or dialing James to pick him up.

Today is no different from yesterday, or the day before, or last week, and he supposes it never _will_ be as he keeps his eyes ahead, scowl on his face as he drives through the darkness with Rusty in the passenger seat. James exhales sharply, his grip on the wheel tightening just a bit. “Your liver’s going to shut down,” he deadpans, breaking the silence.

For once, Rusty doesn’t have anything to say. No snide remark, no snappy comeback. Instead, he just lowers his hat over his face and groans. “Maybe I want it to,” he mumbles, finally.

James scoffs, not even bothering to spare him a glance. “Maybe you want it to,” he echoes, shaking his head. “You’re impossible, you know that? Even in the face of truth, you deflect it like a shield raised to a sword.”

Rusty gives him nothing more but another groan. “Knock it off with that flowery bullshit already,” he says, “I’ve got a headache.”

“A headache from _what,_ I wonder,” James says dryly, going quiet as his focus returns to driving. He makes a right turn, and something deep within causes him to slow it down, to make it less jarring for the drunk in the passenger seat. That line of thought doesn’t get far, however— he’s slamming on the brakes to make sure he doesn’t run right into another car. “Lord have mercy,” he murmurs, inhaling and exhaling deeply.

“Are you _trying_ to kill us?” Ah, there’s the usual Rusty. “Christ, James. Where’d you get your license?”

James clicks his tongue, rolling his eyes. However, he doesn’t respond, instead devoting more of his attention to the road ahead. He makes the next left, nearly thanking God when he sees Rusty’s apartment building come into view. “The DMV, Rusty,” he says, “although I know that’s not what you’re getting at.”

Rusty snorts and he tilts his hat back up to look James in the face, one eyebrow quirked. “Looks like we’re finally getting somewhere on that sarcasm thing, then,” he says, “Only took you two fuckin’ months.”

James can’t help but wrinkle his nose at the harsh swear, frowning. He soon pulls up to the apartment complex, and once he’s free to take his hands off of the wheel he moves to pinch the bridge of his nose in annoyance. “ _Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen._ ” He exhales a deep sigh. “Ephesians 4:29.”

“Piss off,” is all Rusty has to say to that. He doesn’t immediately move to get out of the car; all he’s doing is squinting up at where the window of his apartment is. The lights are out— maybe a sign that nobody’s home. “Erma’s been coming home late the past couple of weeks.” It’s an absent minded comment. He might not have meant to actually say it.

James stares at him in complete silence, eyebrows furrowing just a bit as he leans over enough to look up at the window. “Oh,” he says, his frown deepening. He moves to sit up straight again, pulling at his tie awkwardly. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Rusty just barks out a laugh. “What is there to be sorry about?” He says, “I never saw this lasting more than a year, so I’m surprised she’s managed to stick it out this long.”

More staring. “Then—” James purses his lips, and despite it all, he cares. Not too much, but still— he does. “Why did you even decide to propose?”

“Thought I loved her, once,” Rusty says, and he shrugs, “Knew she didn’t really love me back, but she said yes anyway, so— here we are, three years down the road, while she’s _up_ the road getting humped by her boss.”

James winces. He _hates_ how crass Rusty can be, but just this once, he lets it slide. “You’re not _bothered_ by it?” He’s making it a point to _not look,_ eyes forward as he turns the key in the ignition to kill the engine.

“I was at first,” Rusty says, and he shifts slightly, pulling his hat off to run a hand through his hair. “Not anymore. She’s got her secrets, I’ve got mine.”

Now that’s caught James’s attention. “I feel that a couple should be wholly and completely open with each other,” he says, and it sounds like less of one of his usual reprimands and more of an honest concern. “Especially a married couple.”

Rusty is oddly quiet. Then, he shakes his head and puts his hat back on. “We’re less married and more just roommates,” he says, “Besides, if she knew my secrets…” He trails off and doesn’t continue.

James ignores the nagging at the back of his head, the voice telling him to press him further, to root out those secrets Rusty wouldn’t tell even his wife. Instead, James tightens his jaw and eyes Rusty analytically. “I… suppose that makes sense.”

“Right,” Rusty says. He clears his throat; he almost seems hesitant to continue. “This might be a stupid question, but do you want to come upstairs for a minute? I could use some company.”

The surprise in James’s face is palpable. He opens his mouth to respond— shuts it, eyebrows furrowing in thought. _Give to the one who begs from you, and do not refuse the one who would borrow from you. Matthew 5:42._ Just as the silence becomes awkward, he responds. “Just to make sure that you don’t collapse in the stairwell,” he says, offering a rare albeit pitying smile as he moves to get out of the car.

Rusty is quick to follow, only stumbling a bit. “I’m not _that_ drunk,” he says, “I called you, didn’t I? If I was too drunk to think, I’d have tried driving myself.” A snort. “It’d give those boys in Traffic something to actually _do_.”

James scoffs. “That implies that you’re _not_ always too drunk to think,” he says, tone dry as he enters the complex. He glances over his shoulder, just for a moment. “Which apartment?”

“306,” Rusty says, trailing after him. “Erma’s been hinting we should move into an actual house, like we have a need for a bunch of useless space. Not like we’re ever having kids.” He pauses, and his next words come out snarky. “At least, not any kids that are _mine_.”

James fights the urge to roll his eyes, opting to shake his head instead as the two make their way upstairs. “I still don’t understand how you’re so—” He stops, struggling for the right word. “ _Unaffected_ by it.”

“If she wants to sleep her way through Los Angeles, then she can just be my guest,” Rusty says, and he’s pulling his hat off to run his fingers through his hair again. This time, he keeps it off, letting it hang at his side. “Funny how they call it the City of Angels when it’s the exact opposite.”

This time, James laughs— not fully, though; he only exhales amusedly through his nose. “I’ve found myself thinking the same,” he says, and they’re finally on their way down the third floor hall.

“With all the religious nonsense you constantly spout, I’m not surprised,” Rusty says, and he’s digging through his jacket pocket, presumably for his apartment keys.

James frowns, suddenly serious. “It isn’t _nonsense,_ ” he says, his tone defensive. “You would understand better if you actually attended church.”

“I served my time as a kid,” Rusty says, “Played the role of an altar boy and everything.” They’ve come to a stop outside of his apartment and he’s moving to unlock the door. “I quickly decided it wasn't for me halfway through high school.” Once he’s got the door unlocked, he turns to James with his eyebrows raised. “Are you coming in?”

James only stares for what feels like forever, glancing over Rusty’s shoulder into the dark apartment ahead. He swallows hard. _Matthew 5:42._ “I suppose I can’t leave you alone like this,” he says, more of a justification to himself than anything else.

“What, are you _afraid_ I’m going to keel over?” Rusty asks. He’s stepping inside and turning the lights on, then. “It’s almost as if you’re actually concerned for my wellbeing.”

James exhales deeply, shaking his head as he follows Rusty inside. “You’re my—” He stops, biting his tongue. “—coworker. As much as I hate to admit it, I suppose I need you.” For once, there’s no dishonesty behind those words— it surprises James just as much as Rusty.

Apparently, it surprises Rusty enough to leave him speechless, and that’s quite a feat. He seems to be deep in thought as he continuously runs his fingers through his hair, a few strands falling in his face. “I guess I need you, too,” he finally says, lamely, and if James looked close enough, he might’ve noticed that his cheeks had colored _just_ slightly. “Jesus Christ, that just makes me sound like some sentimental bastard.”

James snorts. “That isn’t always a bad thing,” he says before he can _really_ think about it, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose as soon as the sentence leaves his mouth. “I— _suppose_ it isn’t, anyways.” He’s still standing in the threshold, stiff and awkward, feeling like he shouldn’t be here. Why that is, he doesn’t know.

“You’re allowed to move away from the door, you know,” Rusty says. Perhaps he’s more perceptive than he lets on. “It’s not like I’m going to murder you or anything. I think it’d be a little counterproductive, considering my job.”

At that, James laughs, finally loosening up. “Good to see you’ve finally accepted that it _is_ your job,” he quips, removing his hat and hanging it on a rack near the door. He finally moves into the rest of the apartment, taking a moment to look around and take it in. It’s not bad; a little more cluttered than his own, but nothing too out of the ordinary. He’s still looking around when he speaks up again. “Your apartment is quite nice.”

Rusty’s set his own hat aside on an end table, nearly knocking over a framed picture of what could only be him and his wife. He’s quick to right it before it can fall. “It’s just an apartment,” he says, “Feels like Erma and I are only ever here to sleep.” There’s a twitch in his cheek— maybe he’s suppressing a frown, or something else. “Sorry I keep bringing her up. Maybe it _does_ bother me a little, but not enough to get up in arms over it.”

James is staring at him again, searchingly, one eyebrow raised in inquiry. He doesn’t say anything for a long while, his intensely _blue_ gaze piercing and near-insufferable. Then, finally, he looks away. “It’s only natural,” he says, suddenly incredibly fixated on a rather drab painting. He’s trying not to look at Rusty out of fear he might— _might what?_ He inhales sharply, shaking his head to clear the thought. “You vowed to spend your lives together, in marriage. You made a promise to each other.”

Rusty hums and averts his gaze, loosening his tie. “I’m pretty sure by this point we’ve broken every vow we made,” he says, and he’s taking a step forward, “I’m thinking— why not break more?”  

James turns to him then, now with both of his eyebrows raised. He doesn’t have a clue what Rusty’s implying— and it’s clear from the confusion on his face. “What do you mean?” He asks, tentatively.

Rusty is incredibly close— close enough that James can truly make out the blue of his eyes. “It means that all I want to do right now is kiss you,” he breathes out. God, he’s _serious_.

Just like that, James has lost every word he’s ever known. His mind is yelling at him to take a step back, to distance himself from the man in front of him, but… he _can’t._ He doesn’t know how and he doesn’t know why, but he _can’t._ He swallows hard— no, he _does_ know. “You’re more drunk than I thought you were,” he manages to get out, and it sounds much less harsh than he intends. It’s almost _soft._

Silence— all Rusty is doing is _staring_. Then, in one swift movement, he’s cupping James’s face in his hands and closing the gap between them. The moment their lips meet, James freezes— he’s stiff, awkward, and in an act that’s surprising to even himself, he’s _kissing back._ He eventually loosens up, squeezing his eyes shut as his hands hover precariously over Rusty’s back. Rusty’s own hands drop to his waist, tugging him closer _just_ enough.

 _Oh._ James decides now to throw inhibition to the wind, pulling Rusty with him as he stumbles back. He feels himself hit the table— there’s a glass cracking. The photo of Rusty and his wife has fallen to the ground, and just like that, James snaps out of it. He suddenly pushes Rusty away, taking a moment to catch his breath and shaking his head vigorously. “This is wrong,” he says, finally, eyes shut tight enough to see stars. “You’re married, and— we can’t do this. _I_ can’t do this. I have a duty to the Lord, and this isn’t it.”

Rusty is quiet again. “Right,” he says, “We can’t. It was— I was—” He lets out a frustrated noise, rubbing at his face. “Drunk. I’m drunk. Can’t think straight.”

James moves away from him now, heading for the door with a hand on his chest— under his shirt, he wears a small cross. It feels like it’s _burning_ him. “I can very well see that,” he forces out, taking his hat from the rack and placing it back upon his head. He’s about to just _leave,_ but— he stops, glancing at Rusty over his shoulder. “I’ll— see you tomorrow, Rusty. Please, just… forget this ever happened.”

“I’ll try,” Rusty says, and there’s something in his tone— regret, maybe. “Have a good night.”

James nods, snapping his gaze forward. “You too.” He leaves without hesitation, almost running out of the apartment. He keeps up the same quick pace on his way down the stairs, hand over his chest— he doesn’t realize it’s closed into a fist. When he gets outside, he inhales deeply, taking in all that he can of the chilly night air. It’s cleansing, grounding… everything he needs.

 _Not everything._ He squeezes his eyes shut, fist tightening over his chest enough to make his knuckles white. _This is not His will. I cannot allow myself to be swayed by the Devil within me._ He moves to cross his heart, murmuring a quick prayer under his breath before finally opening his eyes.

Unsurprisingly, prayer doesn’t change anything. His thoughts are still racing, even when he gets into his car, only becoming more unbearable once he’s truly _alone._ James rubs at his eyes, leaning forward until his forehead hits the wheel.

He jumps when the horn goes off.

 

* * *

 

When Rusty wakes up the next morning, head pounding and ears ringing and hanging halfway off the couch, there’s only one thing on his mind: James.

 _God_ _,_ what was he thinking last night? Never before in his life had he fucked up so badly— James wouldn’t ever look at him the same way ever again and they _work_ together. He’s not looking forward to having to be in close proximity to him all day, to awkward silences and odd stares.

Even worse, though, is the fact he can’t get the sensation of kissing him out of his head. He’d been wanting to try that for a while and… it had exceeded his expectations. Far more than exceeded. He rubs at his face with a groan. His head hurts too much for this. His _heart_ hurts too much for this— not that he’d ever admit that under threat of death.

Emotions are bullshit and he hates having them. He hates having _feelings_ — especially for James. He hates himself. He hates everything in the world right now, and then some.

His endless stream of thoughts is interrupted by the door opening.

 _Time to play husband, I guess_. He’d take anything right now to get his mind off of James— even Erma, who’s not looking too pleased, as she stands in the doorway with a firm scowl in place. Not that she _ever_ looked pleased; he’s not sure if he remembers what her smile even looks like.

“Finbarr,” she starts, tone clipped, “I think it’s about time we talked.”

 _Oh boy_.

 

* * *

 

James stares down at the case files at his desk, eyes darting around the papers yet not _reading._ All he can think about is last night, the night he committed an unforgivable sin in the eyes of the Lord. He had to pray for _hours_ to cleanse himself and even then, he still feels guilty. Who wouldn’t? Not only is Rusty married, he’s… a _man._ It’s not _right._

He’s brought out of his thoughts by the very voice he had hoped not to hear. “Well,” Rusty starts, “It finally happened.”

James looks up to meet his gaze, eyebrows furrowed as he blinks in confusion. “ _What_ finally happened?”

“Erma hit me with divorce papers,” Rusty says, and he seems awfully casual for something so serious. “It’s been a long time coming. I just didn’t know it’d be _today_.”

“…Right,” James says, his eyes dropping back to the case files. He turns to another page, anything to keep him occupied, to keep him from looking into Rusty’s eyes. Somehow, he manages to keep his tone steady— the cross is burning again. “Did she tell you why?”

Rusty hums. “Well, _apparently,_ her boss is dropping his own wife for her,” he says, “Believe that load of crap when I see it.” He’s moved to lean against the desk, hands in the pockets of his jacket. “That, and she… caught on to my own interests.” It’s obvious what he means by _‘i nterests.’_

James doesn’t manage to still his hand before it goes to rest instinctively at his chest, right over the cross beneath his shirt. “Ah,” he hums, dropping his hand back to the folder and flipping it shut. He inhales deeply— exhales. “I don’t—” He stops, glancing around and lowering his voice before continuing. “I don’t understand how you’re so content to throw your life away for _sin._ ”

Rusty fixes him with a surprisingly stern look. “That’d be because I don’t exactly consider it a sin,” he says, “Who’s to say who I can and cannot love? It’s bullshit.”

James turns his head away from him, eyes wide. His heart is pounding— when did it start doing that? He squeezes his eyes shut and runs a hand down his face. “I believe in the truth of your words, but God can be cruel.” Now, he’s looking up at Rusty, the doubt in his own words betrayed by his eyes. “I wouldn’t want to be struck down for… _this._ ” He stops, face paling. “ _That._ I’m not— I didn’t mean that I was—”

“Sure,” Rusty says, and he’s running a hand back through his hair. “You are what you are and I am what I am. Difference is I just don’t see any point in hiding it.” He pushes away from the desk. “Come on, we’ve got a case to work on and I’m actually in the mood to be productive. Think we can crack it before noon.”

James watches him for a moment, searching for an answer to his own internal battle. He inhales deeply— his hand’s over the cross again, the burning, searing cross, almost as if God is telling him to turn back now.

He refuses.

Right as the silence becomes awkward, he nods and moves to stand. “I’ll take your word for it.”


	2. Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James prays. Rusty doesn't bother with caution. Colmyer finds out.

On his knees in front of a small personal altar, with his head hung low and a rosary clasped in his white-knuckled grasp, James prays.

He prays, first, for family. For his brothers and sisters still in Ireland, his parents resting peacefully beneath two simple headstones, and his cousins scattered all around Europe with no home to call their own. He prays for their comfort, in the hopes that God will hear him and bring them gentle lives full of love and stability. For his brothers to find wives and his sisters to find husbands, and for those who already _have_ spouses he prays for them to cherish it, for they have no idea how suffocating it is to live day after day knowing that they will _never_ have the chance to craft a life with the one they love.

With a sharp inhale, James’s grip on the rosary tightens. He prays, second, for himself. To rid himself of this affliction, this sin that binds him to the Devil’s will. He prays to burn the unholiness within his soul with the white fires of God, the blinding heat that turns sinners to saints and saints to angels. To save himself from the same sins of Sodom and Gomorrah, the sins of unnatural desire and sexual immorality, for which the Sodomites burned in eternal flames, just as he will.

 _Leviticus 20:13_ stated it clearly and concisely: _If a man lies with a male as with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination; they shall surely be put to death; their blood is upon them._ Those words used to hold so much _power_ for James— they quieted any impure lusts his young and foolish mind brought upon himself, but now… now they are nothing more than words.

It’s incredible how fast that verse had lost all meaning; it all started with what Rusty had asked him a week ago. _Who’s to say who I can and cannot love?_ Such a simple question, yet it has been at the forefront of James’s mind for so _long_ now, the subject of an internal battle comparable to the Great War. Deep down, he agrees with Rusty— _love is love._ If love is supposedly the most powerful thing on Earth, the purest of all human emotions, how could it be impure? Furthermore, if God is the creator of every single being that has ever existed or is ever to exist, then why create homosexuals if they’re such vessels of sin?

It just doesn’t make sense, and that’s what James _loathes_ about it.

He’s taken out of his prayers by the phone ringing in the other room, snapping back to reality with a harsh intake of air and his hold on the rosary loosening. Gingerly, he sets it back upon the small altar, murmuring a few last holy words before standing up and making his way to the other room. He stops once he’s in front of the phone— what if it’s… _him?_ Inhaling and exhaling a deep breath, he decides to pick up the phone anyways, clearing his throat before speaking.

“James Donnelly,” he says. “Who is it?”

“It’s Rusty.” _Of course_. “Case just broke. We’re wanted on the scene.”

James exhales a quiet sigh, rubbing at his eyes. “Right,” he says, his exhaustion apparent in his voice. “I’ll be over momentarily. I was—” He pauses, reaching up and pinching the bridge of his nose, even though he knows Rusty can’t see. “Praying.”

“Color me shocked,” Rusty drawls, “Just get here as soon as you can. I’ve already been dealing with the pricks from Vice. Another overdose.”

James’s eyebrows furrow at that. “Are there signs of foul play?”

“If there wasn't, I wouldn’t be down here already, would I?” Rusty says. He pulls away from the phone for a moment, yelling at somebody in the background. When he returns his attention to James, it’s clear he’s irritated. “I think _I’m_ going to be the one who goes away for murder.”

James just scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “I hope you aren’t being serious,” he says dryly. Shaking his head, he continues. “Just— keep everything under control. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“I’ll try,” is all Rusty has to say before hanging up.

For what feels like forever, James just stares at the phone in his hand. He eventually snaps out of it, setting it back on the receiver and moving to run _both_ of his hands through his hair now.

_Might as well get this over with._

 

* * *

 

Rusty is at the end of his rope.

Bad enough that he’s having to deal with all of this completely _sober,_ but the fact they’d sent that annoying hotshot _Colmyer_ of all people was worse. All he’d done since he walked in was strut around like a damn peacock and act the part of a conceited asshole. It’s taking every _bit_ of his willpower not to strangle him, honestly, and he probably will if James doesn’t get here soon. He reaches up to rub at his forehead in irritation, headache steadily growing by the minute. A drink. He wants a drink. He hasn’t had one in days at this point.

 _Come on, James, hurry up_. He couldn’t handle another second of this on his own.

As if on cue, there’s a familiar, heavily Irish-accented voice from behind Rusty. “Sorry I’m late,” James says, and his hand is suddenly on Rusty’s shoulder. “What have we got?”

Despite himself, Rusty tenses up under James’s touch. _Idiot_. He shakes his head and moves to hand him the case notes. “Took you long enough,” he says, “It’s all right there. Some poor bastard who liked to party too hard overdosed on his drug of choice, but there’s reason to believe there’s foul play involved. Turns out he’s not too well-liked in his social circle.”

Humming, James takes the notebook of case notes and flips through it, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. “Interesting,” he mumbles, glancing up at Rusty’s face. “And I’m assuming the Homicide squad was called as an afterthought?” His words are only _slightly_ bitter.

Rusty makes a vague gesture towards where Colmyer is talking up another Vice detective. “What do you think?” He asks, “I was two seconds away from dropping to my knees and praying that you’d show up before I did something I’d regret.”

James barks out a laugh at that. “You, praying?” He shakes his head, still chuckling under his breath. “The end is nigh.” His gaze eventually trails over to Colmyer and the other Vice detective, a sudden frown etched in his features. He’s back to his usual serious, no-nonsense demeanor. “I suppose this is a two-desk case, then.”

“Unfortunately,” Rusty deadpans. He rubs at his forehead again; that headache is steadily becoming a migraine. “We don’t have much choice but to work with them.” A pause, as he shoots a glance over his shoulder and scowls. “If they’ll actually work with _us_. Bunch of arrogant bastards.”

James is about to respond, but right at that moment, Colmyer’s interest is piqued— by the way he shoots the two Homicide detectives a dirty look, it seems he must've heard them. With a roll of his eyes, James leans in to whisper to Rusty, apparently not caring about the Senior Detective of Ad Vice approaching. “Speak of the Devil, here he comes.”

Rusty bites back the urge to laugh. “I’d rather deal with the Devil than him,” he whispers back, before clearing his throat as Colmyer gets closer. “How can we help you, Arch?”

Colmyer gives the two a slightly sarcastic dip of the head. “Donnelly, Galloway,” he greets, straightening quickly up as if it's a cardinal sin to show them even an ounce of respect. He claps his hands together after that, clasping them as he looks around. “Just wanted to remind you two that if you find anything related to Vice, let the _Vice_ detectives take care of it.” His voice is laced with sheer arsenic. “Had to bark at a Traffic dick this morning for failing to call us when there was enough dust to coat a goddamn beach.”

Nose wrinkling at the use of God's name in vain, James seems to comply with a nod, somehow managing to conceal the annoyance he feels. “Of course, Senior Detective,” he says, rigid and stiff as ever. “We'll let you know if we find anything regarding your area of expertise.” He nearly laughs at _'expertise,’_ instead opting to clear his throat and avert his gaze. “Isn't that right, Rusty?”

At that, Rusty puts on his _fakest_ smile. “Oh, of _course,_ ” he says, and he doesn’t bother to mask the sarcasm. “It’d be our pleasure.”

Colmyer offers an equally as fake smile. “Right,” he says, stepping back and returning to the flock of other Vice detectives.

James sighs, reaching up and pinching the bridge of his nose in irritation. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he grumbles, eyes squeezed tightly shut. “There is _far_ too much on my mind right now to deal with— _this._ ” It's meant to be a quiet comment, just to himself, but it doesn't escape Rusty.

Rusty quirks an eyebrow, dropping the fake smile for a _slightly_ concerned look. “Like what?” He asks, and that voice in his head is screaming that he’s an idiot again, as the answer to his question hits him like a ton of bricks. “You’re not still torn up about the other day, are you?”

Inhaling sharply, James lets his arm drop to his side as he shifts his eyes to meet Rusty's own. There’s a surprising amount of hesitance behind his gaze— along with something unreadable. Pursing his lips, James looks away. “I haven't been to church in a week,” he starts, “so yes, I'm working through some things.”

For a moment, Rusty says nothing. There’s a terrible gnawing feeling in his gut— guilt, maybe. God, he hates _guilt_. Inhaling sharply, he reaches up to rub at his forehead once more. Yup, that headache is definitely a migraine now. “I feel like I should be saying sorry,” he mumbles, “I shouldn’t have done what I did.” His words are sincere, for once— not a lick of sarcasm behind them.

There's palpable surprise in James's eyes, his eyebrows raised as he stares up at Rusty. “No, Rusty,” he says, shaking his head, “it isn't you. I suppose I'm just—” He stops, inhaling and exhaling a deep breath. It isn't clear whether or not he's going to continue for a while, but soon he speaks again. “I suppose I'm just trying to balance my self-discovery with my faith.”

Rusty’s mouth is suddenly dry. He’s not sure how to reply, or if he even _should_ at that, but he eventually clears his throat. “Guess that makes sense,” he says. A part of him wants to say more on the subject, to tread the boundaries a little further. Instead, he continues with, “We should try to get a head start on this and go do some interviews. I’ve got a list of potential suspects ready.”

James's steely blue eyes don't leave Rusty's face, not even for a second. “Right.”

 

* * *

 

In the middle of a dull car ride filled with nothing but contemplative silence, James finally speaks up. “You know,” he starts, glancing over at Rusty searchingly, “we can stop for a drink if you need it. Your hands are shaking.”

Rusty scoffs. “Wouldn't look good on us while we’re in the middle of a case,” he says, “Or ever. I’m skirting the line by even drinking in the first place.” He inhales deeply. “Sooner we get this done, sooner I can get something in my system.”

James sighs, turning his attention back to the road as he makes a right turn. “You’ve drank _many_ times in the middle of a case,” he points out, eyes still forward. “Have you suddenly had a change of heart?” His words are deeply sarcastic.

For a minute, Rusty says nothing and that in itself is worrying. “I guess you could say that,” he mumbles, and he runs a hand down his face. “Does it matter? Last time I checked, I’m your partner, not a suspect. Stop interrogating me.”

Surprised, James turns to Rusty with raised brows. He opens his mouth to say something— shuts it, eyebrows furrowing when he focuses back on the road ahead. “I’m not _interrogating_ you,” he says, tone incredulous, “I thought a drink would make you feel better. I’m sorry.”

Breathing out a sigh, Rusty reaches up to pull the brim of his hat down over his eyes. “I quit,” he says, “I haven’t had one in days. Probably why I’m so irritated.”

There’s a long silence between them. Without a word, James moves to pull over by the side of the road, turning over the ignition once they’re parked. That silence has become even more prevalent without the rumble of the car’s engine— and, even more unbearable. James fixes Rusty with an intense, surprisingly _concerned_ gaze. “Don’t feel bad about it,” he says finally. It’s obvious what _it_ is.

Rusty shifts to tip the brim of his hat back up and look James in the eye. “It’s hard not to,” he says, “I shouldn’t have done it, James. It was…” A pause, as if he doesn’t know how to phrase it. He bites out an irritated sigh. “A mistake. That’s what it was.”

More tense, heavy silence ensues as James just _stares_ at Rusty. Not critically, but analytically. “Believe it or not—” He stops, reaching up to drag his hands down his face. “Good Lord, I’m really saying this,” he mutters, shaking his head and clearing his throat. “Believe it or not, Rusty, it— helped.” He doesn’t know what he might do if he continues to look at the man in the passenger seat, so his eyes flick to the sidewalk, watching people walk past. “What you did wasn’t a bad thing.”

“It helped?” Rusty says, and it’s more of a statement than a question. Eyebrows furrowed, he keeps his gaze on James, steady and focused. He opens his mouth to speak, but he shuts it instead. With another sigh, he pulls his hat off and runs a hand back through his hair, effectively disheveling it. “I don’t know, James. I still shouldn’t have done it. We’re partners.”  

James purses his lips. “We’re partners,” he repeats, and he doesn’t like how much he _enjoys_ that word in a different context. “Right.” He reaches out to turn the key in the ignition—

He’s stopped by Rusty reaching out to put a hand on his arm. “Wait,” he says, and there’s something about his tone that almost sounds _nervous._  “Did you— I mean—” He lets out a frustrated noise and drops his hand. “Fuck it.” With that said, he pulls James in by his jacket and closes the gap between them. Needless to say, James is surprised— he certainly didn’t expect to be kissing Rusty again so soon. But this time, it’s… different. This time, it doesn’t feel unholy. This time, it doesn’t feel like a _sin._ He squeezes his eyes shut tightly, hands sliding down to the small of Rusty’s back, finally letting himself loosen up and _enjoy_ this. In one swift movement, Rusty’s moved to pin him against the door of the car, deepening the kiss.

James breaks away much easier than the last time, trying to catch his breath. He takes a moment to breathe in and out, pupils dilated as he stares right at Rusty. Suddenly, though, he snaps out of it, eyes wide and filled with fear. “What if someone sees us?”

Rusty inhales sharply. “I wasn't thinking about that,” he admits, almost sheepishly. He pulls away a bit and opens his mouth to speak, but doesn’t continue. He seems to be in thought if the crease in his brow is any indication. Finally, tone low and husky, he leans in to say, “Let’s forget the case and find somewhere private.”  

Swallowing hard, James gives a weak nod. “Right,” he says lamely, glancing around a bit nervously while he chews his lip in thought. “Nothing— nothing further than this.” His gaze settles back on Rusty. “I don’t think I’m ready yet.”

Humming quietly, Rusty reaches up to cup his cheek. It’s a strangely soft gesture coming from him. “Whatever you’re comfortable with,” he says, “I can wait.”

For once, James doesn’t jump at the rather sudden and affectionate contact. In fact, he _welcomes_ it, leaning his cheek into Rusty’s palm ever-so-slightly. “Thank you,” he says, the sincerity in his voice a surprise to even himself. He clears his throat then, moving to disengage himself from Rusty and finally turn the car back on.

Rusty settles back into the passenger seat, grin on display. “You know, for somebody with no experience, you’re a pretty damn good kisser.”

Both James and the car sputter.

 

* * *

 

Don Bailey, youngest member of the Vice squad, is all grins when he enters the office. “Colmyer,” he says, as he makes his way to his partner’s side, “You’re not gonna believe what I just heard from one of the kids on patrol.”

Colmyer looks up from his folder of case files, one eyebrow raised in questioning. He gestures for Don to go on as he leans back in his chair. “Well, spit it out, sonny.”

“You know those two from Homicide?” Don asks, and he’s moving to search through his jacket, “That religious nut and his alcoholic of a partner?” He pauses, finally pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lighting one up. He breathes out smoke before continuing. “Kid saw them necking in an empty parking lot. I always thought there was something... _off_ about their relationship, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it until now.”

At that, Colmyer’s eyebrows shoot upwards and he leans forward in true surprise. “Well, Hell,” he says, flipping the folder closed and setting it aside. “Kid swore up and down about this being the truth?” He holds out his hand for a cigarette, patiently waiting for Don to comply.

Don is quick to pass him a cigarette and help him light it. “On his life,” he says, and he takes a drag of his own cigarette. “That’s something awful big to lie about anyway, don’t you think? I believe him.”

Colmyer gives a small shrug, cigarette stuck between his teeth. “I guess,” he says, leaning back in his chair and staring up at the ceiling in thought with his eyebrows furrowed. Then, his gaze snaps back to Don. “Anything you want to do about it?”

Don hums in thought, shifting to lean against Colmyer’s desk and cross his arms. “I don’t know,” he says, “I just thought maybe you’d appreciate the information in case you ever needed it for… blackmail purposes, I suppose. You’re always complaining that Homicide gets in the way of your investigations.”

“Good thinking,” Colmyer says, taking a long drag from his cigarette and breathing out a plume of smoke. All of a sudden, there’s a wicked grin on his face, the type of smile someone gets when they know they’ve got a dastardly plan. “ _Real_ good thinking. Is that all you’ve got for me?”

“Yes, that’d be all, sir,” Don says, “I’ll be more than happy to keep any eye on them for you, though. Anything you want.”

Colmyer raises his eyebrows. “Then, by all means,” he says, gesturing widely, “keep ‘em on their toes, would you? I’d like to see where this little _thing_ goes.” There’s only a _bit_ of disgust in his voice, not nearly enough for Don to notice, but— it still slips in, anyhow.

“Of course,” Don says. He takes a minute to finish his cigarette and put it out in the ashtray on Colmyer’s desk. “I’ll be going now, but I’ll report back.” It’s all he has to say before he’s dipping his head towards Colmyer in acknowledgement and taking his leave.

Colmyer only raises a hand to wave him off, letting it drop back to the desk once the door swings shut. _Galloway and Donnelly._ He scoffs, and that scoff turns into a snicker, and that snicker turns into a full-blown laugh as he reaches up to wipe at his eyes.

 _Now_ that’s _rich._


End file.
